


Unwelcome

by TheTalkingPeanut



Series: Now I'm a Man; Yours [4]
Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Batjokes, Bats, Creepy, M/M, Origin Story, Weekly Three-Word Prompt, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:15:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTalkingPeanut/pseuds/TheTalkingPeanut
Summary: Written for the three word prompt on the Discord Chuckletown:FireSunsetMusicBruce is trying to have a normal evening, but certain things make it difficult. Then, a phone call turns everything worse.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Bruce Wayne
Series: Now I'm a Man; Yours [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665307
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	Unwelcome

**Author's Note:**

> (Chuckletown link: https://discord.gg/V7fT7Y6 )  
>  Hello hello! Here's the fourth installment of the weekly prompts! Fire, Sunset, and Music this time!!
> 
> I hope it's okay. Enjoy, I guess??

He catches the tiny, black object fly across the room from the corner of his eye. A blink later and another one dashes around in a semicircle on the other side. The movements are silent yet swift.

Bruce lowers the book he  _ had _ been enjoying and sinks back in his favorite leather-stuffed chair in the study. He lets out a disgruntled sob, “Fuck, not again…” He covers his eyes with his hand.

_ It seems like it’s going to be one of  _ **_those_ ** _ nights… _

Wayne Manor has/had a reputation to uphold. It’s practically a living, breathing thing on its own. Complete with the public’s expectations on it being as heavy and demanding as its occupant. There were rules for it to follow. A ‘look’ it had to keep up. A mystery and a beauty that was the ‘Pearl to Gotham’s Oyster’ of a city. Wayne Manor meant power. Wayne Manor meant magnificence. Wayne Manor stood for Gotham’s future in greatness - thanks to what it incubated inside.

Therefore, the very idea that the majestic place was infested with bats on a constant regular basis could never be allowed to escape the boundaries of its walls. Period.

The current ‘invasion’ is the third one this week… and it’s only Friday evening. Both Bruce and Alfred are becoming experts at Bat Capturing and are tired of this as a hobby. 

Once upon a time, Thomas Wayne had hired an exterminator (‘discreetly’, of course) to take care of the problem when it appeared that the guests in his beloved home had no intention of leaving any time soon. That had been done thirty-six years ago. He continued this cautious pattern for years until he eventually was forced to give it up at his wife, Martha’s, urgings when he started running for Mayor. Keeping something like that a secret during a political time - although minor - was not a whisper the Head Wayne wanted on his record. Who knew that would be the least of his problems…

Bruce’s mood shifts drastically, as it is want to do for the young multi-millionaire. These shifts in emotion had never become a thing until the sudden and tragic passing of his parents. Before then he was the opposite.

Now, however, he’s finding it difficult not to fly off the handle for taking a few tries to pick up a single piece of paper. These bat invasions were not helping. For they always, always seemed to strike when Bruce had steeled in a calm and happy place.

Such as today.

The day had been more or less uneventful up until then - for a wealthy young man - and when the day was waning Bruce had decided to spend the evening in his favorite study. (Yes. The Manor has more than one.)   
  
Bruce loves this room for several reasons but the main two are that most of his memories of visiting his father are in this very room and the second is the luxurious bay window that faces the setting sun. Due to this, its sunsets are something to behold. The colors that illuminate the room are like fire. Which amuses Bruce because the study has a large fireplace and when in use makes a counter glow that creates something indescribable. It’s warm and safe. He loves this room. So, to curl up and read a book in a plush chair by said fireplace was all he wanted to do to wind down for today.

Oh well. 

The sun has already set when Bruce notices the flying buggers flapping haphazardly from one point to another. As he waits for Alfred (whom he hollered for feeling quite vexed) he counts at least two of them have somehow gotten stuck in this room with him. Per protocol, Bruce shuts the study door to make sure they can’t flap out and/or more can’t get in. 

How long they’ve been in here he doesn’t know. That’s always a mystery to him. They hide so well in the cracks and crannies and have the patience to match Job that he is, admittedly, impressed. But they aren’t welcome here.

He watches them with hawk-like precision. One is clearly tiring sooner than the other for with every swipe it makes it flies lower. Bruce focuses on that one in particular. Alfred barges in not long after, hand still on the doorknob. Expression concerned.

“Two of them tonight, Al,” he tells the butler over his shoulder. Keeping his gaze on the one.

“Bloody hell. Right, be back in a jiffy Sir.” Alfred dashes back out, shutting the door.

There’s no need for the older man to tell him where he's going or what he’s doing, etc. Bruce knows. They’ve done this stupid dance for far too long.

Alfred returns just as the one Bruce hasn’t been watching as closely swipes by the young heir’s head, causing him to yell in surprise. He hates when they do that.

“Al, this one! He’s getting tired, let’s start with him.”

The young man points and the guardian steps forward now wielding a net. This, he admits openly, is Bruce’s favorite part.

Watching as Alfred flails about the room trying to catch a bat is a guilty pleasure he loves to witness. Alfred does not appreciate it, naturally. So, of course, the butler came with more than one net. 

If there is more than one, Bruce never tries very hard on the first one being far too entertained by the sight of his mentor swinging and missing. Granted, the butler knows what he’s doing, but the bats are clever. It isn’t easy to catch one.

Bruce captures the second one after Alfred if there should be several and it’s a remarkable workout. How  _ not _ to break everything in the house to catch the unwanted rodent is a challenge.

This round is no different. Bruce picks up the extra net that is laid down for him and watches. Encouraging the other man for the sport of it. Alfred stands ready like a ballplayer and swings every time it comes within range. He shifts here, backs up there, Bruce alerts him about the vase in the corner. The usual stuff.

“He’s heading towards you, Sir! Try to swing out!”

“Agh! He switched, now he’s going to the back. Run Alfred, go!”

Alfred gives Bruce a strained glare - knowing full well the younger man could have run instead - and makes a quick effort to get this over with. The critter swings wildly down again and makes a surprising dive to the couch. Lands with a  _ Thwack! _ On the leather cushion.

Both men pause for a moment. 

Well. That is unexpected.

Bruce is closer. He starts wondering if the poor little thing just killed itself by accident when it suddenly begins to scramble across the seat. Using its wings. Bruce gasps and rushes forward on instinct slams the net down over it. Two tries later he’s caught it inside the netting.

Bruce feels a wealth of relief, although not quite how he thought they would get it. He blinks and looks up to Alfred with a smile. He gives him a thumbs up. “Got him!”

“Very good, Sir,” Alfred responds, panting. Weary. Wiggling his net in one hand. The butler steps forward and switches nets with Bruce, careful to grab the netting above the bat so as not to hurt it but also to keep it inside. “I shall take our houseguest outside and will be back to help with his friend.”

Alfred nods to Bruce then turns on his heel and makes his way out of the room. Bruce watches him. Beyond amused. A chuckle escapes as he starts to spot the other one. 

Bruce is standing next to the phone when it rings. He’s so engrossed in following the other bat and replaying the current event in his mind that he doesn’t quite register he even picks up the phone out of habit just after one ring until he hears the voice on the other line.

“Yes?” he says unthinkingly. 

Whatever jovial mood he has shatters to the floor. His face swipes clean, dark. Bruce can’t move.

The voice on the other line is only breathing. 

“Hello?” Bruce asks with uncertainty. There’s not an answer right away, but as he listens carefully he can tell the breathing on the other end has a shudder to it.

The bat darts by across the room, silent.

A heart misses a beat. A shake in his spine. Bruce’s mouth falls open. He knows who this is. No one needs to tell him and he can’t explain it. He just  _ knows _ .

_ “Bruce… help me.” _

The voice is a whisper, high pitched. Shaking. The words come too quickly.

“Arthur,” he breathes. It’s not a question. He’s not sure what it is. His chest tightens.

_ “Bruce, please. Don’t… don’t let them take me.” _

Bruce’s eyes flick to a grandfather clock. It’s well past seven. Arthur has never, ever called him this early. Ever. Not even when Bruce used to wait for them while sitting in the limo. They always came after midnight. When everyone was tucked away and sleeping. This… what is this?

“Are you in Walker’s office right now? Are you calling me from there--where are you calling me from?” His own voice is urgent. His free hand is gripping tightly to the edge of the desk. Arthur always broke into one of the doctor’s offices to make his calls. Being this early, where can he possibly call from where they won’t find him? 

What is happening? Why is this happening??

_ “I-I’m in his office… Oh God, please don’t let them do anymore! Please!” _ Arthur’s fear is palpable. Bruce can practically  _ hear _ his tears. He can see him in his mind’s eye; curled up on the floor, hiding under a desk. Gripping his hair or the phone. Eyes squeezed tight. Needing to not be alone…

Bruce’s mouth runs dry. He licks his lips, “Arthur--”   
  
A loud  _ Crash! _ is heard. Arthur cries out.  _ “They’re here! They’re here! They found me! Bruce, Please! Don’t let them take me anymore!! Please!! No! Don’t touch me!! Get off me!  _ **_HELP! HELP ME!! BRUCE!! AHH!”_ **

There are more crashing and sounds of stomping footsteps. Furniture squeaking over a polished floor. Grunting. A massive struggle is currently taking place over the phone…

And Bruce is frozen. His mind watches the scene fill in what he hears and it’s violent and awful. Bloody. But his eyes follow the bat fluttering back and forth, up and down, around and around. His voice is gone. His brain feels stabbed by Arthur’s shrieking pleas.

He can still hear Arthur calling out for whatever or whomever to stop but farther off.

Then. A new voice speaks to him.

_ “Who is this? Who did he call?” _

The new voice is much deeper. More commanding. Older. In fact, it sounds familiar… Bruce says nothing but his stomach turns.

The voice continues after an eon of quiet, calmer. What Bruce hears causes him to tremble in pure fear and rage. An interesting combo.   
  
_ “Please disregard this troublesome incident, Mr. Wayne. I apologize for any inconvenience or distress it has caused you. I will personally make sure it will not happen again.” _

Followed by a  _ Click! _ and then nothing.

Whoever was on the other end just hung up on him.

Bruce stood in the silence, the echoes of Arthur’s cries swirling through his mind. Imprinting themselves there. Making it their home. Just like the bats in the Manor. They aren’t welcome here.

Alfred returns with an empty net. “Who was that, Sir?”

Dial tone now talks to him. Bruce can’t move the phone away. 

A wave of anger boils from below and rises faster than he can register.

  
  


~~~***~~~

  
  


It’s the next day, and Bruce is sitting in his usual chair in the visiting room at Arkham.

Normally, he doesn’t visit Arthur on a weekend due to those days being the most chaotic. He learned that the hard way.

But this is different. He’ll make an exception today. He wants an explanation for yesterday's phone call and he intends to not leave until it is answered. He made it clear to all who crossed his path he was in no mood for any argument or question as to why he’s here. For once, Bruce pulled his superior status to get him in and waiting for his friend. He only did it - to a few raised eyebrows - because he figured there would be trouble with his presence here, especially after the call.

Much to his surprise, no one gave him any sign of resistance. Nevertheless, he kept his guards up and now waits. Just, waits.

The side door opens and a chained up Arthur waddles out. 

Bruce’s eye twitches at the chains but remains seated. Arthur smiles at him the same as he always does and makes his way over. The closer he gets, the more Bruce’s breath hitches.

Arthur looks terrible. Sunken eyes. Hollowed cheeks. A skeleton with skin and hair. His eyes are just as large and beautiful as they’ve ever been, but… they aren’t sparkling anymore.

They’re dull, almost dead. These are a deadman’s eyes.

“Hi,” Arthur squeaks as he always does, and sits down. Chains clattering against the chair’s edge. “Surprise to see you here today. You never come on the weekend anymore. Not that I’m complaining.”

Bruce only stares back. He’s forgotten how to speak. The shock of his beloved’s appearance is alarming. Disturbing. What the fuck is going on here since he last saw him?

“What happened to you?” Bruce whispers.

Arthur tilts his head ever so slightly. “How do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘how do you mean?’ What’s happened to you?” Bruce’s voice rises as does his anger. He gives the other man a frantic once over, gesturing with his hand. “Why do you look like this? What have they been doing to you?”

Arthur gives a slow blink, a deranged smile plastered on. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. Everything's fine. How are you doing?”

A shudder ruptures out from the young multi-millionaire’s body. His hair stands on end. He cannot believe what he’s hearing. Although Arthur’s responses are soft as they have ever been, he’s speaking like an automated machine. This isn’t like him. This isn’t Arthur. 

What the hell is going on?

Bruce rubs a hand down his face and shifts in his seat. He’s going to change tactics and turn the conversation to what he came here for; the phone call.

“Arthur,” his voice his low, he leans in, “You called me last night, do you remember? After seven? You were frantic, scared. What happened? Please tell me - that’s why I’m here. You wanted my help. I’m here now; tell me what that is.”

Arthur’s head tilts the other way, his smile falters. He stares. Doesn’t blink this time. “What phone call?”

Bruce’s heart plummets. His mind is doing a tailspin. This is so wrong yet no one is acting as though anything is out of the ordinary. He tries again, pleading this time. “The phone call - you know which one. You called me. You did. You-you, you were scared of something. Afraid of someone taking you away. Then we were interrupted. Who, Arthur? Who is doing this? Please remember! Who is harming you? Please tell me!”

A pause, then a minor, breathy chuckle. “I never called you, silly. Why would I call you when you visit me all the time now?”

“Arthur--”

He didn’t see the man walk over to the old gramophone. Didn’t witness him listening in on their conversation. His cold expression. Never noticed him pick up a very specific record and place it, laying the needle purposely down on a specific spot. Then turn it on and walk back to his position against the far wall.

Bruce saw none of this for all his attention was absorbed in the one thing he so loved in this world besides Alfred lying to him on something he’d never done before. Due to this, however, Bruce  _ did _ see the frightening transformation on Arthur’s countenance in detail once the song started pouring out of the horn on the gramophone.

The first notes tinkled out clear. Arthur went rigid. His breathing increased. Eyes bulged. Face tightened, smile fell. As the lyrics started, Arthur tilted his head down and dug his nails into his knees. He stared at the floor but Bruce knew he isn’t seeing the floor. He saw something else; or nothing at all. His breathing turned labored.

Bruce knew the song.  _ Tiptoe Through the Tulips _ by Tiny Tim. He’s never understood the appeal of the guy, thought of him as a joke. Well, whatever’s happening in front of him right now, is anything but funny.

“Arthur? Arthur, can you hear me?  _ Arthur?” _

No response. No acknowledgment. Bruce swallows rocks in his throat - he knows the answer. Arthur is no longer home. Nobody is. All that’s left is a pure definition of unspeakable terror.

Bruce feels light-headed. He’s going to be sick. He looks around and catches the eye of one Arkham staff member. One who brazenly burns eyes back at him. Through him. Testing, analyzing. 

The intern, Crane, stands watching him and observes the young man’s reaction to all of this. Slowly, a grin forms...

  
  
  
\-----------------------------------

**Author's Note:**

> So.... yeah. THere it is. I'm starting to think this thing is getting weird. And if you are wondering what in God's name is going on... I'm right there with you lol. I have no idea! I'm literally writing this as I go, being inspired by the prompts as they come. I just... keep giving myself interesting stuff/cliffhangers for room so I can continue this thing for the next one... If it's at all possible. I could very well be digging myself into a hole here. Lol, I have no idea.
> 
> Well, anywho. As usual, let me know what you think, K? Comments really help. They just do <3


End file.
